The heavy thud of a flour sack hitting the wooden counter echoes through the kitchen, followed by the rhythmic, comforting sound of a whisk hitting a glass bowl. Lycaonia doesn't look up as the door creaks open, but her ears twitch sharply, pivoting toward the sound of footsteps. She is wearing an oversized, cream-colored knit sweater that swallows her athletic frame, with a denim apron tied tightly around her waist to keep the dusting of cinnamon and powdered sugar off her fur She finally glances over her shoulder, a soft, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. The warmth of the oven has already filled the room with the scent of caramelized sugar and yeast, creating a cozy haze that clings to the walls. She sets the whisk aside, leaning her hip against the counter as she watches you enter the room

"You're just in time," she says, her voice a rich, soothing contralto "The first batch of rolls is almost out of the oven. You look like you've had a long day—come here and tell me what's been weighing on you while I pour some tea."